


Flame and Shadow

by AvaRosier



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 20:45:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2242962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaRosier/pseuds/AvaRosier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re a Banshee,” he breathes, the word seeming to reverberate off the walls. If Phoenixes are somewhat rare in terms of the total supernatural population, Banshees are even rarer. There used to be more, but fewer are born in every generation and nobody knows why. There was a study from the University of Chicago that concluded environmental factors were to blame; another that claimed that new Banshees simply died when they stumbled on criminal deaths and were murdered before anyone could identify them as such.  </p><p>Religious sorts? They claimed this meant the End of Times were at hand because knowledge of what lay behind was becoming occluded to the living world. So did witches, but they couldn’t care less. They knew there were worse things than the apocalypse to fear.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flame and Shadow

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nyxierose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nyxierose/gifts).



> For the Tumblr prompt #15: 'meeting in the E.R./A&E AU'. Nyxie, I hope you like this fic I insisted you prompt me for.

 

 

“Alright,” Melissa McCall murmurs as she slides the curtain back, her attention almost entirely on the chart in front of her. “I see you’re back with us, Deputy Parrish. Standard Post-Immolation checkup?”

 She gives him a reassuring smile and, even as exhausted as Jordan is, he relaxes and grins back at her. He had been able to shower and change into a clean pair of t-shirt and jeans, so thankfully the acrid smell of smoke was gone, along with the feel of ash coating his skin. This is his fourth rejuvenation, he’s starting to get used to the bureaucratic requirements for Phoenixes when they work in law-enforcement or military professions.

“Yeah, it was a fairly quick and easy one. I don’t want to take up too much of your time.”

“You let me worry about that.” She says, making a few notations on the paper. “C.O.D. this time?”

“Headshot from the back. Didn’t notice a thing until I came to and saw the Sheriff waiting for me with my other set of clothes. He said it took fifteen minutes this time.” Thankfully, Derek had been his backup and the beta wolf had chased down the perp while more backup arrived to process the scene and wait for Jordan to start his burn.

“Good, good.” As if realizing what she just said, Melissa winces. “Uh, not _good_ that you died. Just ‘good’ that the data’s well within normal parameters.”

Jordan chuckles and braces his palms on the examination table. “That’s alright, I knew what you meant.”

He can see the visible relief on her face and with that, she proceeds to check his heart rate, blood pressure, and examine his head for signs of the wound. There is none, of course. Every time he Immolates, he returns like new, in more ways than one.

“And how are you, mentally? Emotionally?” She keeps her tone casual and he knows she’s probably dealt with others like him who feel like the question is a trap. But he’s read the case histories for Phoenixes, the tendencies and the risks to their mental health, and he had resolved then to self-evaluate carefully, lest he end up like some of the others. 

“Well, I was doing pretty great before. Plenty of upbeat days, I had a positive outlook even then. Not like it was before my second Immolation.” His first had been a shock when it happened in the middle of a firefight in Afghanistan. Neither of his parents were Phoenixes, and as far as they could tell, it didn’t run in the family. So, his was a spontaneous manifestation. His second had come after a string of hard losses in his unit, compounded by the guilt of being able to resurrect when his buddies were gone forever. It had been the primary reason he had become a bomb tech.

He didn’t have to, but he had figured, why not? It was a matter of bodily autonomy, and there were plenty of laws protecting him. Like with consent to donate your organs, you cannot demand a person’s deaths of them.

“So, I suppose it feels the same, maybe a little better right now. Like I woke from a really good nap.”

Melissa finishes her exam and waves goodbye as she goes to hand the chart over to one of the Attendings on the floor.  And with that, Jordan is left to wait patiently to be released. There are several other beds in the open space, each one with curtains for privacy. As he tilts his head to the side, he picks up on the raised female voice that pauses intermittently, likely having a conversation on her phone.

“No, _Scott_ , you don’t get to True Alpha your way out of this. This town has been hard on us lately, especially with the darachs wreaking havoc, but you, as per usual, have taken on more than your share of the burden—“  She breaks off mid-lecture, presumably because this Scott is arguing on the other end.

“That’s what we love about you: you _care_. But we just worry that you’re not taking care of yourself. And you hate it when we get worried about you like this, don’t you?” Jordan bites back a chuckle at the implicit threat underlying her tone. She’s good.

“Excellent. You’ll love this spa, I go there once or twice a year with my mother. They have shifters on staff, so your deep-tissue massage will actually be effective. I can’t wait—it seems like it’s been one terrifying threat after another and we never got a chance to really talk since I moved back here. Saturday, then?” Scott clearly doesn’t put up a fight anymore and Jordan can’t blame the man. He doubts it was the woman’s concern that did him in, but rather the subtext to her last comment about missing talking to him. The barely implied loneliness.

The conversation ends because the room is silent once more. Jordan looks over to the other side of the bed and studies the dark machines as he hopes the doctor comes soon. He’s not sure what tips him off, maybe whatever it is that allows you to know when you’re being watched. He’s surprised he doesn’t jump in fright when he turns back around and sees the woman standing there staring at him. He hadn't even heard her sneak upon him.

She’s beautiful, the kind that makes Jordan’s breath stall in his throat. All long red hair, murky hazel eyes, and pink-slicked lips. He does, however, note her right arm encased in a sling. She gives him a slow once-over, eyes half-lidded and mouth curling up at the ends, clearly liking what she sees. Jordan can’t help the blush that floods up his neck and face. He steels himself.

“Hello there. Can I help you?” He could smack himself for opening with that, but the cop in him is just so used to seeing how he could help people.

“You sure can, by solving a mystery for me.”

“And what would that be?”

“What you are. Since you’ve been in the room, I can’t feel all the death in this building as…keenly as usual.”

“You’re a Banshee,” he breathes, the word seeming to reverberate off the walls. If Phoenixes are somewhat rare in terms of the total supernatural population, Banshees are even rarer. There used to be more, but fewer are born in every generation and nobody knows why. There was a study from the University of Chicago that concluded environmental factors were to blame; another that claimed that new Banshees simply died when they stumbled on criminal deaths and were murdered before anyone could identify them as such.  

Religious sorts? They claimed this meant the End of Times were at hand because knowledge of what lay behind was becoming occluded to the living world. So did witches, but they couldn’t care less. They knew there were worse things than the apocalypse to fear.

“And he’s as smart as he is handsome,” she trills, giving him a flirtatious smile. She extends her left hand towards him for him to shake. “Dr. Lydia Martin, and you still haven’t answered my question.”

Her hand is small and soft, but her grip is strong. “I’m Deputy Jordan Parrish and I’m a Phoenix.” He tells her, unable to look away for even a second.

Something in her expression softens, and she tilts her head a fraction. “Well, that explains it.”

Jordan knows what she means. Lydia is drawn to him like, well, a moth to a flame. It’s not artificial, the attraction they feel to each other; very few people can understand life and death the way a Banshee or a Phoenix experiences it. They recognize their complement in each other, deep in their bones. Flame and shadow. Something as visceral as death leaves its mark.

There was one Banshee-Phoenix union, back in the 1860s, if Jordan remembers his history correctly. It had been intense, obsessive. Combustive. Because a Banshee would predict and feel her lover’s death, every time; it wasn’t the easiest thing for someone inextricably bound to life to be around someone so attuned to death.

“What happened to your arm?” He asks conversationally.

“Oh, this?” She glances downwards and purses her lips, unimpressed.  “Occupational hazard. I came to while walking down some rickety stairs. It turned out to be a case of autoerotic asphyxiation— _so_ not worth the fuss and I still wish I had brain bleach. I take it you died yourself?”

Well, there was no mincing words with her, it seems. “Yeah, I did. But, as you can see—“

“You came back,” she whispers, a light of fascination in her eyes. Her hand reaches out as if she was about to touch him before she comes to her senses and lowers it back down by her side. She’s closer, though, having moved at some point while they were staring at each other.  Jordan can feel her breath on his face.  Her eyes aren’t hazel, he realizes, but green. Really, really green…

The spell is broken when Lydia becomes unfocused  and stares off into the distance, pupils constricting.  The lights flicker overhead and when Jordan looks back down at the woman before him, she’s breathing faster and frowning.

“What’s wrong?” He goes into immediate vigilance mode, standing up.

“Three deaths, ritualistic and three-fold.” She rattles off the causes as he reaches into his duffle bag for his firearm. “Probably the same trouble you and the Sheriff have been having lately: Hunters that claim to despise the supernatural order of the world but when it comes down to it, have no problem using magic or transforming themselves because it’s all really about power.” Derision drips from her voice.

“Yeah, they’ve been harassing your pack, haven’t they?” At her shocked expression, he explains further. “I overheard your phone call earlier. There’s only one True Alpha around for thousands of miles, and that could only have been Scott McCall. Also, I’m partners and occasional fishing buddies with Derek Hale. I’d almost swear the man was the president of the Scott McCall Fan Club.”

Lydia snorts with laughter and Jordan can’t help smiling at the adorable way she scrunches her face up when she realizes how inelegant she must have sounded. 

“What kind of doctor are you, by the way?” He asks casually in an effort to distract from the seriousness of the moment, while he checks the chambers and reloads the magazine. A full clip. Good.

“Mathematics,” is her succinct reply.  When he glances back at her, she’s got her eyebrows arched as if challenging him to be surprised.  Something tells him Lydia has her intelligence impugned on a frequent basis. She’s prickly. He thinks he likes that.

“I know you’re a civilian and all, but do you think you’re up to aiming me towards our troublemakers?” He might catch flak for this from Sheriff Stilinski, but these murders had gone on for long enough and confronting the rogue extremists would require cleverness and finesse. Also, the woman next to him is dangerous in her own right.

Lydia seems to preen a little at being included. “It would be my pleasure, Deputy.” The way she says his rank is almost a purr and Jordan has to tamp down on the flare of want in his lower belly. Not now.

_But later, right?_

Silence reigns as they approach the end of the now empty hallway and Jordan slows to a stop. A hand presses against his shoulder before reaching past his field of sight, one perfectly manicured and ruby-tipped finger beckoning to the right. He follows her direction without question, a shield as they head towards the danger. The death. But the same willpower that had driven him past survival instinct and towards IEDs drives him now.

As they make their turn, his forefinger exercising trigger discipline and the constant presence of the Banshee at his back, it occurs to Jordan that he may be having a portent of his own: this Lydia Martin just might be the death of him, over and over.

 

 

 

But god, what a glorious way to burn.

 


End file.
